


Blossom

by apacketofseeds



Category: The Fast Show
Genre: Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-22 12:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apacketofseeds/pseuds/apacketofseeds
Summary: “Mrs Ted always used to say actions are worth more than words, sir.”“Did she, Ted? Did she?” He believed he understood. “Tell me, Ted. Would ensuring your employer arrives home in one piece without making too much of a fool of himself be one of those actions?”“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”No. No, of course he wouldn’t.





	Blossom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verecunda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/gifts).



Condensation misted the glass at the greenhouse's far end, clung to the corners of the panes, occasionally dripping into shallow puddles on the mosaic floor. The air was thick, moist. Ralph ran a finger beneath his shirt collar.

Between neat rows of African violets and towering above the dazzling red blooms of his Chinese hibiscus, Ralph’s azalea fanned her leaves like arms reaching out to him.

“You are looking quite wonderful today,” Ralph told her. He parted her thin stems, shears ready to clip anything extraneous that presented itself. “Not one imperfection, as always.” The azalea’s rosy pink petals were framed with an extraordinary white, the kind of perfect, bold edges that would win awards at the county show.

The succulents looked a little dry. Ralph eased a few withered brown leaves from the base of one.

“Time for a fresh start,” he whispered, tipping a teaspoon’s worth of water into each of the planters.

The plants were easy to talk to, good listeners. Appreciative sounds like water soaking into dry soil were the only responses Ralph needed. Sometimes leaves bounced and resettled like they were excited to see him when he first opened the door in the mornings, waving their green hands in greeting. He knew it was merely the shifting air.

Speckled brown garden spiders sat motionless in their corner cobwebs while he thanked them for their tireless efforts in clearing away flies and other insectoid nuisances.

Bending over an orchid he’d been convinced was accidentally neglected to a point it could never recover from, Ralph noticed the delicate swell of a fresh bud.

“Quite wonderful.” He thumbed the soil down, rearranged the small pebbles around its thick stem. “I do believe you’ll be back to full health soon my dear.”

There was nothing like a visit to the greenhouse. He skipped breakfast some mornings to get there sooner. On lonelier days, he told the plants about his dreams or made some up following nights of dreamless sleep. Sometimes he hummed to them, and if he wasn’t in the mood to hum, he at least offered them a smile. They smiled back in their own way.

The sound of metal scraping concrete scored lines through the cosy atmosphere, loud and grating above the birdsong, soft hum of insects and the breeze’s gentle rustling through the trees. Ted was bent on hands and knees on the path outside, scraping at the weeds that had sprung up between pavement slabs with a rusted trowel. He didn't notice Ralph in the greenhouse doorway, pulling at the edges of his jacket as he tried to summon courage he didn’t possess to wish him a good morning.

It was just ‘good morning’. Two words.

Ted sang to himself under his breath, flicking a persistent weed with the trowel’s tip before impatience forced him to pull at it with his bare, soil-stained fingers. Perhaps it was best not to disturb him while he was working. Though, Ralph would have to pass him to get back to the house, and he couldn’t loiter in the greenhouse’s humid doorway any longer.

“Morning, Ted!” Ralph said, voice cracked with nerves but lifted with affected joy. “And a beautiful one it is too.”

Ted’s back stiffened, trowel freezing in mid-air. He sat back onto his knees, lowering his hands to his lap along with his gaze.

“Morning, sir.”

“Ah, weeding the path?” Ralph asked, pursing his lips and swallowing the embarrassment of making such an obvious and unnecessary observation.

Ted nodded, the movement stunted.

“Aye, sir.”

“Troublesome little—” he bunched his fist for emphasis “—blighters, aren’t they?”

Ted nodded again.

“Well, I’ll – I’ll leave you to it, Ted. I… uh—” He what? What excuse could he possibly give for leaving? He had to pop into town and run an errand? He hadn’t breakfasted yet? He expected a call from the bank?

Too much time had passed for him to finish his sentence without it sounding like a fabrication, so he scurried away, hoping Ted wouldn’t notice his trailing off. He passed under the flint archway separating the cosy garden from the lawn and pressed his back against the stone wall.

Back in the garden, Ted’s trowel scraped again.

~

Anaemic logs crumbled in the hearth, deep glowing veins of heat warming the damp-soiled books in father’s study. Ralph hunched over the writing desk and scribbled at a notebook with a chewed pencil. Tomorrow was Ted’s birthday. Instead of signing his name beneath the bland, puerile greeting ordinary birthday cards provided, he was writing Ted a poem. What value Ted placed on doggerel he didn’t know, but it would make a statement.

Poets through the ages allowed their bottled emotions to flow with ink, paper and words formed with care into rhyming couplets, sonnets and blank verse. Ralph could not rival those greats, but with these heartfelt words he might express what he could never articulate in Ted’s presence.

Ted became the mighty oak, the emblematic and beloved king of the British countryside. Strong. Independent. His mere presence striking awe in the surrounding land.

The thought of a face-to-face conversation with Ted filled Ralph with dread. There he’d stand, fiddling with his clothes, shuffling on his feet, waiting and hoping for Ted to speak. He’d talk over him, mishear him, recant his every word for fear of offending, then retreat mid-sentence. Yet, when Ted was not a man but an oak, Ralph’s words spilt across the page with such excitement that he cared not a jot if they were misspelt or dashing into the margins. Later, he’d shape them into something neater, like how Ted trimmed wild hedgerows into perfect rectangles. Then, after writing the final piece in his best hand, he’d hand-deliver the poem to the man who inspired it.

~

As Ted positioned a wooden ladder against the first-floor windowsill, Ralph found himself transported back in time: boarding school, his dormitory bed, counterpane up to his neck, a paperback copy of E. M. Forster’s _Maurice_ he’d traded for chocolate clutched in both hands. The handsome, rugged groundsman was crossing the threshold of the eponymous protagonist’s open window, coming to ravish him in his bed. These pages were dog-eared; words, sentences, and entire paragraphs were underlined like a treasured Bible.

Ralph’s heart raced at the memory of skimming the print, excited to reach impending lines despite knowing them by heart. The book was considered inappropriate. Obscene. Some of his teachers said it should have remained unpublished, wasn’t worthy of their lowest library shelves. That only made reading it more exciting.

However, there was no scene in _Maurice_ where the title character was forced to run naked across his family estate after locking himself out. The courageous Maurice Hall never had to beg his groundsman’s clothes then break into his own house. No, that kind of embarrassment was reserved for fools such as himself.

Ted ascended the ladder, confident. He raised the window’s sash and climbed inside with flexibility that did not befit a man of his years. (Ralph could sprain his ankle standing still.) It took him a minute to make his way downstairs, let Ralph inside. He promised to contact a locksmith about that replacement set of keys.

“I’ll have your clothes laundered.” Ralph stepped through the door as Ted exited, their shoulders brushing in the entranceway.

“No bother, sir. Keep ‘em.”

“Thank you, Ted, but I couldn’t. I’ll have them returned to you as good as new. I promise.”

Ted touched his cap and turned his attention to removing the ladder.

When moonlight illuminated the grounds, the bedside lamp fanning orange light across his bed, Ralph thumbed through the tattered pages of the novel with the happy ending he hoped one day might be his. Ted’s shirt, destined for the laundrette the following morning with his other garments, was pressed against his cheek like a comforter, Ted’s scent captured in its fibres. He inhaled it cautiously; if he breathed it too much, too deep, the smoky, earthy smell of Ted’s skin might disperse, and when would such an opportunity arise again?

There was little chance of Ted emerging from the surrounding greenwood to place that same ladder against his window and again climb inside, but he could dream.

~

Ted helped Ralph into the back of the taxi, offering a steady arm as he shuffled drunkenly across leatherette seats and well-used upholstery that smelled mildly of sick; he took the seat beside him and informed the driver of their destination.

When the car moved off, Ralph’s giddiness returned in a great wave, but it did not diminish his spirit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent such an enjoyable evening. There was something about the combination of whiskey, ale, Ted’s smiling face and a cheering local crowd that pushed him to sing yet another song on the karaoke machine that left him feeling aglow.

“I’m not much of a drinker, Ted,” he began, watching street lamps streak past the window, “but something about the stuff has me – it’s, it’s damned well made me want to speak my mind!”

Ted’s expression took an anxious turn, amber light and mottled shadow playing across his face like a tiger's stripes.

“I think it’s about time I – well, it’s time I…” He hiccupped, cleared his throat and gripped the armrest. “What was it Poe said on the subject of alcohol? Something like: Fill with mingled cream and amber, I will drain that glass again. Such – such visions clamber through the chambers of my brain. Quaintest thoughts… queerest fancies—”

Eyes widening, Ted spoke over him.

“Mrs Ted always used to say actions are worth more than words, sir.”

“Did she, Ted? Did she?” He believed he understood. “Tell me, Ted. Would ensuring your employer arrives home in one piece without making too much of a fool of himself be one of those actions?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

No. No, of course he wouldn’t.

The pockmarked country road whipped beneath the taxi, headlights painting it with light. The Yorkshire valleys slept. Soon, Ralph would too, the moment his head hit his pillow.

“Yes. I think I understand what you’re saying, Ted. You’ve always managed to stop me… taking things too far.” He went to pat the other man’s knee, grateful for the advice. Realising how the gesture might be misconstrued, he halted his hand before it moved far from his own lap. “Thank you.”

“It’s not that, sir,” Ralph mumbled. “What I mean to say is, people put too much importance on words these days. Least, that’s how I sees it.” He scratched the back of his head, fingers dipping beneath the rim of his cap. “Sometimes you don’t ‘ave to say things. You just ‘ave to do ‘em.”

~

He’d gone over and over it. It was ironic, really, that Ted’s words had spoken to him so deeply while stressing the insignificance of speech. They’d crept into his mind and taken root, refused to budge, like the weeds that infiltrated the lavender patches last summer to weather frosts, whitefly, even those plucky foxes Ted spent weeks hunting.

Ted was a man of few words. When he did speak, it was with an eloquence and grace unbefitting his class. Not that Ralph considered him his inferior. Even with his education and standing, he’d always had difficulty stringing sentences together in company. Ted knew that, and he knew the value of silence. When he’d visited Ralph in the hospital all those years ago, he hadn’t said one word. His presence had been enough. Yet, Ralph needed Ted’s words like his azalea needed water. If they were to move beyond the crippling fear of admitting anything, they had to leave their comfort zones: Ralph had to act, and Ted had to speak.

Wrapping his dressing gown tight around his shoulders, Ralph surveyed his estate. Chilled morning air seeped through the thin window glass, sapping the warmth from his skin.

Far in the lower field, Ted’s bent figure dug a channel into waterlogged soil, clouds of condensed breath dissipating into the air above him.

~

The grass turned to mud the closer he got to Ted, hard to trudge through, getting deeper and wetter the further he walked. It didn’t deter him. He’d crossed many an acre over the years to spend seconds speaking with Ted, or at him.

The lower field had suffered from drainage troubles as far back as Ralph remembered. Something about the slant of the surrounding land and nearby river made it difficult to clear. Ralph was happy to let the place turn into a bog, but Ted said he recalled a day when the land was good for setting traps, even for keeping cattle or horses, so he’d endeavour to return it to its former glory whether Ralph wanted it or not.

“Ted!” Ralph called, alerting him to his presence. He clung to a fencepost, feet slipping and sliding beneath him in the freezing, waterlogged soil. He wasn’t giving up. He'd swim if he had to.

“Sir!” Ted shooed him with both hands. “Get back. You’ll ruin your shoes.”

“I don’t give a damn about my shoes!” They were ruined already.

Ted watched, several awkward, worried expressions playing across his face as Ralph continued to traverse the mud, wobbling like a foal. Every step he took stained his trousers darker, added a new layer of mud a little higher and a little higher, until he was finally beside Ted, sinking slightly but managing to find his balance enough to let go of the fence.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night, Ted.” As Ralph spoke, Ted adopted his usual uncooperative posture: chin and eyes turned down but listening. “About actions conveying greater meaning than words, a-and – and, I have to tell you, Ted, that, I – I’ve always found that… Well, I need words. I’m not too good with them, and – it takes a lot for me to…” He took a deep, steadying breath. “What I’m saying, Ted, is if I – If I was to...”

This was why he needed Ted’s voice. Though, maybe that was why Ted had encouraged him to communicate a different way. Actions were worth more, he’d said.

Reaching out, and not to steady his balance, he took Ted’s hand in his own. Ted flinched, eyes darting everywhere, folding even further into his stiff-shouldered pose. Ralph squeezed Ted’s fingers, refusing to let go or say anything more. It was Ted’s turn to be courageous.

Slowly, Ted’s posture softened. Their eyes met, neither of them shying from looking at the other, shin-deep in mud, the cheek-reddening cold Ted said he didn’t feel whipping across the field and turning their breath to mist. Ralph couldn’t feel his feet, didn’t care that he was shivering. Finally, Ted’s rough hand squeezed back. A gentle smile crept across his face, crinkling the corners of kind eyes.

“Would you like to come inside?” Ralph asked.

Ted nodded, still smiling.

“Aye, sir. I would. I would.”


End file.
